


Haggling and bargaining

by avaloncat555



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Eldritch, For superheroladies on tumblr, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avaloncat555/pseuds/avaloncat555
Summary: Haggar and Lotor on shopping trip. Is that enough warning?





	Haggling and bargaining

The prince sleeps.

It is curious thing, though rather impractical, especially when it comes to attending his duties and training (they say, and and he believes it, that Emperor is strict. Ruthless. Demanding. Some would even say cruel. Yet something in Haggar, buried but not forgotten, as are her ears, looks at gasping child covered in dust of arena, droids and soldiers broken before him even as he barely stands and thinks :  _He is too old to need knife for that._ )

When he is older, better at bearing pain, and Emperor is less concerned with his health and survival, assured by centuries of proper development, she will have to put him through tests. First to see what amount of sleep in necessary and proper for him, and how his cycle works-  his mixed biology makes such things hard to analyse, especially as he is still rather young, and they float among stars, not bound to earth and whims of day and night. And she will need to see if she can get rid of that function, so he would spend more time on useful work, like her, or at least lessen it, cut time down in half, or turn sleep in passive trance, as with his father.

(It runs strange, and different in them all.

Zarkon is filled with quintessence, but it doesn't rest  _inside_  him. It is fuel, that must be replenished, and that can be spent. Like a battery, it charges him, yet it can be lost and then he shall fall. He doesn't sleep often, and eats even rarer, and breaths slow and too little for what Galra needs, but still he lives as long power infused within him isn't lost.

Lotor is more and less then his father. Before he was born, he was bathed in it, that power from which life and creation spring forth, and it has changed him, been woven in his cells. Yet still he lives-like radiation or fire he is influenced and filled with part of it, but he doesn't hold pure power within himself. He lives, as they all do, though slower. Like generals she treated with quintessence, his health has been bolstered and aging slowed down, but unlike them he doesn't need regular infusions.

And then there is her, who has been released from clutches of dreams, who hasn't eaten in centuries, who could walk through vacuum and need neither breath nor warmth. Quintessence lives in her, always replenishing, reproducing and growing like her cells once did, part of her and more, universe calling out to Haggar, to the High Priestess of Galra, channelling it's power through Head Druid, Zarkon's Witch, flowing in place of blood, furrowing inside hollowed out bones, burning where one her organs, her flesh, her heart resided.  Were they to gut her, cut her open, they would find themselves devoured by darkness and light and  _power_.

Time will tell if Lotor will die, and if he does, whether he shall rise, and as what. She is still debating risks and benefits of putting him at edge of death, to see how his body will react. For now, she files away ideas and guesses away-she has all time in world to try them out, in later experiments).

''Prince Lotor, you need to wake.'' How strange it feels, when air enters her lungs, when air passes through empty corpse. Her fingers (clawed, changed in sharp and blue things) prod him, sharp enough to break skin ( which happened before, unfortunate accident even though she healed cuts with wave of finger. She had syringes for taking samples, other ways just contaminated blood, which led to worst of all-incorrect analysis). He turned in bed, mumbled something and slowly opened his eyes.

First there was that mumbling, murmuring fatigue, as he slowly escaped chains of sleep, his brain responding and activating, reason coming back to him as it took in accounting space around itself. Then there came confusion, twitch of lips and wide eyes, as something short circuited, wondering why  _she_  was here. And then, there was that familiar spike of fear, as if he had been picked upon with razor wire-flash of eyes (not all yellow and dimly glowing in dirty yellow like hers, like Emperor's, like any other Galra's, not yet/anymore) and limbs paralyzed, chill climbing up spine.

And finally, there was that prized obedience, silent and cold, with bearing straight and strong as steel pole, and blank, simple face, for he was prince  and he was Emperor's heir and he was child and he was under her watch.

''Yes, High Priestess?'' His gaze is solid but blank, face empty and neutral, and he stands almost relaxed but still rigid, soldier's stance almost naturally coming to him. His voice is neutral, but few octaves too high and words bit too fast, obedience not sunk deeply enough, not till root, but it doesn't matter. They have centuries to train him proper.

''Your father has gone to oversee conquest, and I have to go to get few ingredients.'' He knows what that means. His father leaves him to witch often, because he has absolute trust in her eternal loyalty, in might of her magics and sharpness of her mind, and is aware she would sooner slaughter thousands than fail in her assignment. And he is her assignment, and that means she won't let him go, that like shadow she will follow his steps, her teeth close enough to bite in his throat, her white hair (same shade as his, just as red marks he keeps hidden are, just, as he is sure, they share brown skin, hidden behind Galran lavender and blue).

''Where are we going?'' He asks, careful not to let his voice get too high, too cheery (still a child, still full of hope and dreams, even with all doubts). The witch gets what she needs herself, always, whether that be spare wires or new subjects from arena, and at times like this, when Father is gone, he is under her care, and unlike his generals she never leaves him alone, not even with Druids (he desires it-yet it feel suffocating).

''To Uluru market.'' She says, and he stares at her face, shadowed and hidden, shrouded, yet it's sharp chin and points are visible, unlike of any Galra he saw before, and blue skin dry and plastered to skull like ancient parchments she keeps in her lairs, pieces of paper and skin older then civilizations and civilizations. Lotor nods, his pointy chin going up and down, and promptly prepares himself, while she waits, still as statue, never breathing, only movement pale, sickly yellow eyes tracking his steps.

Once he is ready, in silence he comes near her. He is still too small, not large enough to reach her hip even as she is of bent back, made smaller then she really is, yet he knows he will someday be taller yet weaker then her, just as he knows he will always be shorter and stronger then any Galra.

''You are too close, prince Lotor.'' She spits out, voice raspy and growling, as if her throat is mummified and full of dust, and he widens distance between them with barely curl of lips.

The ship drives in silence, and as Lotor contemplates whatever children his age do, Haggar lets herself forget dull mundane world around herself and feel quintessence, particles of it left in air after experiments, barely shining and smelling of burning and ozone and so cold, feels it flow through ships and weapons, thick and processed and mechanical, and in living things around her, candles flickering on wind, and screaming in stars, and feels it pure and sparkling in child and herself.

(Away, away, between all things and all possibilities, the Rift waits and calls).

* * *

 

They arrive to mall in small, ordinary ship of slightly lesser quality. Older work, centuries out of date, and poorly built-but then no mechanic has ever managed to do exactly same good job as her. Oh, destroying and hacking and reprogramming was possible, but to build sufficient copy, never. Too constrained, by what can and should be done, by laws of known science and ethics to focus themselves.

Perfect for prince and high priestess to hide.

Not that she is worried about assassins, or state enemies, or anything like that. She would drain them in seconds, and prince  Lotor at this young age is almost acceptable mix of skill and viciousness (his father has strength, and experience, and skill few would stand against, but he lacks certain something, thing mice see when Kova plays with them, the smirk Witch wears before she rips apart her victims, the glee opponents Dayak brings find in prince’s eyes before he sinks blade in flesh. Emperor for all his might can’t stand blood on his lips, the pathetic whimpering and rasped pleas as she drives them mad with fear, before ripping them piece by piece- something that Lotor doesn’t have problem with thankfully).

What she fears is stupid, ignorant fools pestering them, looking to earn their way in Emperor’s graces, irritation that would distract her from her assignment. Or worse, paparazzi, hungry, greedy things that would stop at nothing to get tasty story.

And so they shift. Haggar’s magic shapes her body like wet clay, changing everything, even her ears and markings- illusion, but one so tightly woven it could fool all senses. Prince Lotor pulls at his own skin, breathing heavily to undo change in another, bones cracking and skin stretching out, as he rips and rearranges his cells. It hurts, for there is still too much Galra in him for easy change, yet he relishes in it, like starved man feasting on crumbs (if he could, he would rip away Galra in him, even as he knows nothing of Altea).

It will spare the people too. They get so nervous, poor fools, when they see two of them. Zarkon’s witch, who builds his ships that conquer stars, who sucks sanity and life and souls out of people to feed her own void until only husks are left, the highest among druids to whom Powers that rule world whisper (always, always, always, _come to us, come to the source, come Honerva_ ). His halfbreed son, who is too small and wiry and thin for Galra, who sits silent and cold and calculating, who is wild thing giggling as he bites and stabs and slaughters begging soldiers.

They walk through crowds, their skin green and scaled, gills at neck and too long fingers, short and muscled. People still avoid them, however- every breath they take, carries air polluted by witch’s presence, tainted with dark quintessence that should have never been released. They don’t know her, but then neither do they know how to breathe or sleep, for it is instinct every living thing possesses. Their bones know truth, _this thing is dead yet she walks_.

She feels them all. A cacophony of souls, old and young, of thousands upon thousands species. She knows the rhythm of each heartbeat better then she ever did her own, she knows all wounds and illnesses that plague them, she knows what sort of robeast they would make, how much power she could draw out of their deaths.

And it feels disgusting, like swallowing down mud, or scrubbing skin with cooking oil, or eating old hair, for quintessence inside them all is so mundane, so ordinary and simple. It isn’t like Emperor’s,  which rises like steel tower from deserts of Daibazaal, wrapped in mystery and darkness, quintessence of paladin and something else. Not like Lion’s, high and mighty and partly of Astral Realm, or like prince Lotor’s, wild and strange and pure and snarling, singing of blood that shall be spilled and lives that will be devoured and fortresses built on bones.

Not like hers, shining, blinding and cold, stark and clear and refined, almost bursting with force that equals hearts of planets, that seeks to devour stars, that has been almost completely purified of mortality, quintessence that is it’s own creature.

( _She knew purer thing, once, and she shall know it again. Emperor almost did but couldn’t understand, didn’t see didn’t hear what she did. Prince Lotor  doesn’t know, not yet, but his bones ache to return where she led them all, hunger to come back and let him be filled as they were filled for her sake,  and his curiosity and greed will soon prompt him to dig and dig and dig deeper yet_ ).

Prince Lotor is worse then Kova, who listens to her for some unknown reason, as if he owed her more then to a mother, for cat can be bound and will listen and once he learns lesson he sticks to it.  Prince however dances on line between shallow obedience and subtle rebellion, stepping closer when he thinks she doesn’t see him, only for cold glare and flash of strong teeth to send him scowling away, jumping to peer at stalls holding toys and storybooks and dollhouses, and bones and poisons and traps before with whispered word and pointed finger she drags him him back, as if she was leading half-broken war beast on leash.

Finally they reach the shop of oldest in the mall, who lived there when it was swamp, before Emperor drained land of water and cut down trees, wiping out native animals, before he destroyed thousands of cities and displaced their inhabitants to make mall for Galran customers.

At that day and age, it was bigger then it is now. Not mere mall, but holding rare and dangerous treasures, materials mined from far and yet unexplored reaches of universe. It was swamp and it was great market and then tiny colony and then small mall, and life goes on and everything shatters and is remade while Empire grows, and Emperor is stronger, and prince Lotor sharper and crueller and her wiser and shining greater.

He argues with her, the stall-holder, but she has authority of empress and fearlessness of witch, eye of scientist and power to feel way atoms of things he tries to sell her are arranged, and seller is reminded of times when he argued with two Alteans stopping by his shops, one with orange moustaches so vibrant they burned eye and deep cheering laugh and other with bloody markings and  eyes full of gold and avarice.

The boy is still trying to play against her, reaching out to touch and hold and inspect materials, until she pulls him back, as if he was puppet and she holding his strings. he hides it, of course, but she knows, seeing shade of his anger, hearing poison of his thoughts.

‘’What interesting boy. Seems smart and skilled. Aren’t you?’’ The shopkeeper draws near, and Lotor watches him, face cold and blank save for burning eyes.

‘’Pull that finger away before I bite it off.’’ He says, and shopkeeper laughs, and boy manages to keep his face calm even as his pride writhes, and his mind imagines drafts plans how to execute this fool when he is Emperor.

‘’Nice. Has a spirit, even if it isn’t put to good use. But that can be helped.’’ Oh, it can, of course. It is still dark time, and raw, if honest, and slavery is common, children taken and dying grey and wrinkled to pay debts of parents.

‘’You know what? Those scaultrite stones you asked for, and that Ulgyak oil you needed? Will give them for free if you sell me your son. What do you say?’’ He asks. People don’t come at such places if they aren’t willing to throw their own blood to wolves.

‘’Agreed.’’ She says immediately, and boy drops his jaw, looking at her as he shivers, eyes wide and almost utterly yellow, as his blood twists and clenches, but shopkeeper doesn’t notice that.

Two question boy has, _Did father tell her so_ and _Did she confirm_?

The deal is struck. Woman takes bags, and all things it contains, things worth more then child, then life, then halfbreed ( he would wonder sometimes, but he doesn’t know, couldn’t know that beautiful, perfect scientist he builds pedestal and composes odes for would have hesitated less, if she felt it would have benefited her research). And then, before shopkeeper can blink, she grasps boy’s shoulder and pushes him in front of  her.

‘’Hey! What are you doing?’’ Perhaps he would have shouted, gotten weapon, called for security, but he stops, her eyes piercing like scalper, violet shadow in them making his flesh tremble, making it want to peel off his bones.

‘’When I give birth to son, you will be first to know.’’ Her voice is cruel, sharp and teasing and frigid, and merchant like him knows how to weigh true and false and divide one from other, and he sees how she clenches boy, how she barely constrains grimace of loathing and exasperation belonging to exhausted teacher or babysitter, sees absolute lack of maternal instinct  in her eyes, and sees how boy tries to escape, how he looks at her with fear and confusion and vicious anger and none of longing, none of understanding of pattern abusive parents use to control kids.

‘’Is this woman your mother?’’ Boy looks appalled, insulted, his face as if he was smashed with hammer, and that is what seals it for him before they both shout.

‘’No!’’  And they leave, and he allows loophole to pass, partly because it is smart and partly because he feels his blood freezing under crone’s gaze.

* * *

 

‘’Lady-High Priestess’’ Axca shuts up, looking at her newest employee. The witch has turned brown and full, changed from ghost and otherworldly terror  in something solid and upright, more empress then messenger of gods to old and alien to possess something as meaningless as name.

,,Bring me Prince Lotor.’’ Axca is loyal, to Lotor and her friends, Ezor and Zethrid and _her_ even more, but it is more then necessity that forces her to give bow and salute and skip off.  Old  Haggar was witch, creature from darkest fairy tales, who would twist their  very souls to her designs, while new Haggar is Empress right from ancient epics, who would with word raise fleet to crush galaxies under her foot. But always there is that look, from most depraved of war histories, a scientist that doesn’t see living but ingredients for newest projects who would tear their insides in moment, and always there is that aura around her, of something that unsettles every atom of her body, from farthest reaches of universe’s history, that feeling you get when death is inch away and your last breath is almost over and you see Beyond, and what dwells there.

Honerva stands, and smile tugs on her lips as she remembers what she saw through her clone spy’s eyes, of height her darling child reached. Perhaps she will even take him to Quintessence Field.

After all, why would he refuse that?


End file.
